


Cock, Roaches and Mycroft

by Book7BrokeMyBrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Calgon-Take-Me-Away-Sex, Drug Use, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Finger Sucking, Freckles, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Marijuana, Morning After, Mycroft Has a Goldfish, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, PWP, Post-Coital Cuddling, Sherlock is killing Mycroft with worry, Shotgunning, flangst, mystrade, post-The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 11:24:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5705902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Book7BrokeMyBrain/pseuds/Book7BrokeMyBrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a Sherlock promo video in answer to 'who would win playing Chess or Cluedo?':  “I want to say 'Sherlock' all the time, but I've got a sneaking feeling My – if the nuclear bomb goes off, it's cockroaches and Mycroft will be left.  That's what I think.”  – Rupert Graves.<br/>There.  I fixed it for you, Rupert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cock, Roaches and Mycroft

“Detective Inspector,” said the voice on his phone. Greg pushed his reports folders into a neater pile with his free hand.  
“Mycroft. It's late.”  
“Forgive me. It's been a long week.”  
“Yeah. Of course. How is...?”  
“Back in Baker Street.”  
“Good. That's good. Is everything settled then?”  
“My brother stays in-country for the foreseeable future.”  
“Any word on who broadcast that video? Because --”  
“I require you to meet me. My car is waiting for you.”  
“Now? I'm in the middle of --”  
“Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow, I'm sure.”  
Greg sighed. “One of these days, I'll get a 'please' out of you. Yeah. Fine. I'll just be a minute.”  
He hung up and gathered his things, grabbed his overcoat from the hook, shut the lights in his office. He huffed and slogged out to the waiting sedan, to yet another meeting with Mycroft Holmes that would delay his evening at home alone with a beer and the telly. 

Greg didn't recognize the route the car took this time. This was not the way to Mycroft Holmes' office. When they pulled in front of a very nice town home in St. John's Wood, Greg cottoned on that he had been called to the _sanctum sanctorum._  
Mycroft himself answered the door. Greg smiled wearily. “Evening.”  
“Do come in, Gregory. Thank you for coming.” Gone was the suit. Instead he wore trousers and a jumper. Greg tugged at his tie enviously as he followed Mycroft through to the back of the house.  
He assessed the study. Fire going. Leather chairs and couch. Soft lighting. Soft classical music. Books. Lots of books. Liquor.  
“Very nice, Mycroft. Lived here long?”  
“Ages. Drink? Yes? Please. Sit.” Mycroft waved at a chair near the fire as he made toward the sideboard.  
“Got a 'please' out of you. Of course, it sounded like a command....”  
Mycroft turned. “Ice?” At Greg's nod, “So sorry, commands are the order of the day. Every day, in my position. It was meant to sound inviting.”  
Greg stripped off his coat and suit jacket, laying both over a side chair. He dropped into one of the plush club chairs near the fire, and sank and sank into comfort. Greg groaned softly. Mycroft smiled in understanding, stepping near to hand him his drink.  
“To resolutions,” Mycroft said, tilting his glass.  
“To Sherlock staying home,” Greg answered, and Mycroft agreed solemnly. They both sipped deeply.  
They got through their first whiskeys in amiable silence, sitting opposite each other, gazing at the fire. Greg liked that about Mycroft, what limited time he'd spent with the man. He didn't yammer on like his brother. Greg felt comfortable enough to close his eyes and tip his head back, soak it all in and let the day go.  
He heard Mycroft get up and refill their glasses. When Greg opened his eyes, Mycroft was retrieving a small lacquered box from a shelf. He set it on the low table beside the chairs.  
“What you got there?”  
Mycroft looked at him. “I don't often indulge, but it seemed the time.” He opened the lid and pulled out a small bag of marijuana and a pack of Rizla papers. At Greg's surprise he sighed, “Please don't go 'narc' on me, Gregory. Not tonight.”  
“'Narc',” Greg chuckled. “Really up on your street slang, Mycroft.” Greg picked up the bag and sniffed. His eyes widened.  
Mycroft nodded. “You are familiar with those urban legends about the government-grown marijuana strains? This is the stuff of legend.” Delicately, he took the baggie back from Greg. It was worth a small fortune; Greg didn't blame him.  
“Not gonna nick you for a joint. You go ahead.”  
“You won't join me?”  
“I'd say 'yes' in a heartbeat, Mycroft, but drugs testing. Random at any time. Can't.”  
“Gregory. You have to know that you would never be subjected to that.”  
“Really?”  
“Have you ever, in the, oh, ten years I've known you?”  
Greg cast his mind back. No, he hadn't. He groaned. “I wish I'd known that! What good is it having perks you're not aware of?” He shook his head. “There were a few times when I would have. When I could have used it.” He waved his hand. “Go on. Get me lit.”  
Mycroft's face brightened. He hitched up his trousers and slid onto his knees between the chairs. To Greg, it seemed twenty years dropped away from the man. It was good to see.  
Mycroft set to rolling a joint, his slender back bent over the table. His long fingers cradled the paper deftly, distributing the leaves evenly. Greg looked on with interest as Mycroft's tongue poked out, glistening, sliding along the length of the cigarette, flicking delicately. Twisted and sealed, the joint disappeared between his lips to be drawn out slowly, indecently, even. He started a second, then a third, each repetition working to lull Greg deeper into relaxation. The ritual and the alcohol, the almost muscle memory of getting high in his youth taking him to a very nice place, his long day forgotten, and he hadn't even smoked yet.  
“Let me guess. You were the leader of the stoners at Harrow.” He sipped his drink as Mycroft turned from sealing the third spliff, pulling it from his pursed mouth. “Got stoned behind the cricket pavilion or some such.”  
“Hmm,” Mycroft smiled, gesturing with the joint between his fingers. “Hardly. One would need to have had friends in order to be their leader.”  
“Did you not have friends?”  
“Not really. I had Sherlock after a certain point, when he was old enough. But then I didn't.”  
“Ah.”  
Mycroft took a lighter from the box and flicked it several times. He lit the joint, dragging in deeply once it caught. His eyes fell closed, his head tipped back, he held his breath, and let it out slowly. He took another puff, and held it out to Greg, who took it, entangling fingers with Mycroft. He cupped it carefully, not wanting to drop ash on the Persian rug.  
Mycroft shifted to sitting cross-legged, leaning back against his chair, watching Greg. Greg licked his lips, locked eyes with Mycroft and took a long drag. He smirked. He did his little party trick: snap-inhaling, flicking his tongue, swirling the smoke sensuously as it hovered in his mouth before disappearing all at once into his lungs. Mycroft stopped breathing, mouth agape. Yes, that was the response it always got. He toked again, no tricks this time. He passed it back.  
Fingers gripping the soft armrests, Greg leaned back and waited – yes. Yes! “Ohh, Mycroft. This....”  
Mycroft exhaled. “Good, isn't it.” His eyes were large and pale in the flickering light, his bearing so young.  
“Oh, bloody.... I'd forgot. Oh, hell. That's nice.”  
Then comfortable silence for a while, both draped back in bliss, occasionally sipping whiskey until their glasses were empty.  
In the quiet, Greg's stomach growled. The two chuckled.  
“I'm usually a better host than this. You must be starving. I snatched you away from your dinner.” Mycroft got to his feet and held out a hand. Greg clasped it, allowing himself to be dragged up from the lovely, lovely chair by the fire.  
He followed Mycroft downstairs to the kitchen, wending a path to the large, stainless steel refrigerator. Mycroft opened the double doors with some panache, managing to make fetching a plate of sandwiches elegant. He laid them on the old wooden table, and pulled out a chair for Greg.  
“Please. Help yourself.”  
Greg snatched a triangle of white bread from the top of the pile, as Mycroft slid a small plate in front of him. Greg added several other halves to it, selecting a variety judging from the ingredients poking from the edges. This one was turkey with chutney. That one looked like ham and cheese. He was looking forward to that one.  
Mycroft set down two large glasses of water. “You'll want to drink that, believe me.” He draped a linen napkin across Greg's lap, and then his own as he sat. He reached for a turkey sandwich and bit into it.  
“Did you take ballet or something?”  
“What makes you ask that?  
“It's just the way you move. You move like Sherlock. Very... graceful-like. Poised. It's nice. To watch.”  
“We both took dance. It stuck with him.” Mycroft shrugged, and nibbled. “The music, too.”  
Greg got through three whole sandwiches before they spoke again. “So good. Thanks.”  
“My pleasure. Oh!” Mycroft popped up and went to a cupboard. He retrieved a bag of crisps, pulled it open and set it on the table between them. “I forgot I had them.”  
“In my flat, they would barely have made it back from the shops. Kudos for self-control.” He raised his water glass and finished it off.  
“Oh! Wait.” Mycroft got up again, rummaged in the fridge and pulled out a large, half-empty jar of dill pickles. He twisted it open, and plunged his long fingers inside, drawing out a spear. He went back in, fetching one for Greg. Mycroft sucked the brine from his fingers, one after the other, then dried them on his napkin.  
“Hmm. Ta.”  
Mycroft settled in his chair again, after refilling their water. He folded his hands under his chin, elbows on the table, watching Greg eat.  
“Self-control is overrated.”  
Greg looked up from a beef sandwich, on which he'd just layered crisps and a pickle spear. “Hence this small break from routine?”  
“Quite.” Mycroft pulled a handful of crisps from the bag, dropped them on his plate and ate them, one by one.  
Greg pushed away from the table, finally full. Mycroft hadn't eaten much, relatively speaking.  
“Why am I here, Mycroft? There's no case, no trouble with your brother.”  
Mycroft stood and gathered plates and glasses, setting them in the sink. He washed and dried his hands.  
“Come outside, won't you?” He slid the lighter and a joint from his trouser pocket, held them so Greg could see. He turned for the kitchen door that led onto the small garden. Greg followed.  
They shared another cigarette in the cool air. The sky was black, but only the brightest stars showed. Mycroft wandered about, reaching down to drag his hands across a lavender plant gone dry in the winter cold. He held his palm to his face, inhaling the oils. He did the same to a rosemary tree, and a bay laurel, rubbing a leaf between his fingertips. Each time, his eyes drooped and a small smile crossed his face.  
“Come here,” Greg said. Mycroft quirked a brow, but ambled over. Greg reached down for his hand, lifting it to his nose. He inhaled, perceiving each herb and the marijuana. “I could eat that up.” Mycroft hummed, putting his fingers behind Greg's ear, smoothing the perfume along his throat.  
“There. Now you have some.”  
Greg flushed hot. He reached for the knot of his tie, tugging at all the wrong bits.  
“I'll do that.” Mycroft pushed his fingertips between the folds of silk, undoing the knot, sliding the lengths of the tie along his hands. He pulled it from around Greg's collar, folding it. One hand popped the top buttons of Greg's shirt. “Much better.” Mycroft stared down at the base of Greg's throat. “Let's go in. I'm chilled.”  
Greg followed him back up to the study, unbuttoning his cuffs and the placket of his shirt, pulling out the tails. Pot always made him warm and slightly claustrophobic. He'd strip naked without realizing if he didn't watch himself. He tossed his tie on top of his jacket. Mycroft sat on the couch this time; Greg joined him there They watched the fire for a bit.  
“My brother came back to us a changed man, you know.”  
“I'd noticed.”  
“For the first time, he'd felt the lack of companionship. He missed John Watson.”  
“And you, surely. Your parents.”  
“Not the same. He'd never had a friend before, like John. He'd grown attached, you see.”  
“Sure. Yeah.”  
Mycroft smiled sadly. “I don't think you really do. But he matured while he was away. During his... trials.”  
Greg frowned and shifted toward Mycroft slightly. “Nobody would tell me what happened to him. Where he was. What he'd done.”  
“He suffered, Greg. He did.” Mycroft swallowed, and looked him in the eyes. “Even so, because of that, he came back wanting. And he wanted for others, not just himself.”  
Greg covered Mycroft's clenching fist with his hand. He rubbed with his thumb. “Go on.”  
“Sherlock was worried that I'd been lonely without him for so long. I assured him I hadn't been. And that was true. However,” Mycroft pulled his hand back to himself. Greg let him go. “Seeing how deeply affected he was by the lack of his dear friend, I began to wonder. I'd teased him once about something he seemed to have no interest in, and how convinced he was that he wasn't missing anything. I know that's not the case for him anymore. But his situation made me reassess my own.”  
“So what am I here for? Tell me.”  
“When I looked at all the people I've known, you were the only person I thought I could tolerate as a friend.”  
Greg dipped his head. “Knowing you and Sherlock for so long, that's quite a compliment.”  
“Not so much a compliment as the acknowledgment of my limitations. You happen to to be intelligent, yet humble. Unlike John Watson who seems to relish the beatings his ego takes from my brother, you are more the willow that bends in the wind. I would never want a friend who would lose himself in the tempest that is my life, most days. You've shown yourself to be loyal, discreet, faithful, you have a decency and humor about you. And you look fairly presentable.”  
“Only fairly? This is the bending to the wind bit, I assume.”  
“Well, I didn't want to embarrass you. You must know you are a very handsome man, although I would introduce you to my tailor if we were going to be spending any time together in public.”  
“And that's me touching my branches to the ground.” Greg smiled and shook his head. “Just for that, you owe me a really nice dinner somewhere. And I'll wear whatever the bloody hell I want.”  
“Certainly. Apologies.”  
“Anyone ever tell you you're a real chatterbox when you're high?”  
“No.”  
“Because you are.”  
“I tend to smoke alone.”  
“I tend to get very horny.”  
“So do I.” Mycroft colored to his ears.  
“So what do you do about it when you get high and horny, all alone?”  
“Nothing.”  
“That's... a bit sad.”  
“I don't indulge very often.” Mycroft retreated, Greg could feel it. A wall was coming up. Second thoughts?  
“Hey. Where's the loo?” Maybe a short break would reset the mood to something approaching cozy again.  
“Oh. There's a powder room at the head of the entrance hall.” Mycroft stood. “I'll show you.”  
“I'll find it. Be right back.”  
Mycroft nodded and turned toward the fire.  
Greg used the toilet, and washed up, splashing water on his face. He looked a bit high, tired, but he guessed it was more the cumulative effect of his life rather than one night of smoking. He swept his wet hands over his hair, finger-combing the front. Good enough. Shirt still flapping open over his undershirt, he wandered back to the study.  
He found Mycroft standing at the fire and walked up behind him.  
“I don't know how you manage to be so tense after all that weed. Alright?” He laid his hand on Mycroft's back.  
“Mm. Fine.”  
“You know, Mycroft,” Greg said quietly. As Mycroft turned slightly, Greg's hand slid closer to his waist. “You talked about friendship, but... a man doesn't play with another man's tie without other thoughts in mind. Hm?”  
“Should I apologize?”  
“No. No.” Greg rubbed the small of Mycroft's back. “God, that's a nice jumper.”  
“Cashmere.” Mycroft smiled softly.  
“I'd like us to be friends, you know. But if you want more....”  
“Yes?”  
“God, make a leap, won't you?”  
“I don't want to assume anything.”  
“You can foresee the probable outcomes of terrorist plots and diplomatic snafus, but you won't guess how I feel about you? I _let_ you take my tie off, remember.”  
“Well, nuclear war is one thing, but I'd never want to ruin my chances with you.”  
They grinned at each other. Greg smacked his lips and nodded. “As lines go, that's a good one.”  
“I thought of it myself.”  
“Clever boy.” Greg flashed a smile as he went to the lacquer box, picking up the last joint. “You always smoke alone, hm?”  
“Yes.”  
“Then you'll not have done _this_ before. Come here.” Greg sat in his chair. “Kneel between my knees.” Mycroft got down on the floor, shuffling closer at Greg's urging, right between his thighs. They were more of a height, now. “Lighter?” Mycroft dug in his pocket and handed it over. “Heard of shotgunning? You inhale as I exhale. Ready?”  
As Greg lit the cigarette and drew in a mouthful of smoke, Mycroft fixed his gaze on Greg's lips, breath quickening, pulse pounding visibly at his throat. Greg leaned in, Mycroft craning forward, tilting his nose out of the way, and opened his mouth to receive the smoke. So close Greg could feel the warmth of Mycroft's lips, he blew out, Mycroft drew in, a neat draft of white passing between them.  
Greg pulled away slightly, the better to watch Mycroft's practically orgasmic reaction. His head tipped back, eyes closed, breath held, until he had to exhale, straight up.  
“Mycroft.” The man refocused on Greg, mouth still soft. Greg hovered millimeters from Mycroft's lips, then brushed their mouths together, nipping at Mycroft's lower lip. He kissed again, softly tasting with his tongue, molding himself against Mycroft's mouth.  
Mycroft let out a small sound, breath only, softly gripping both of Greg's thighs as he swayed into the kiss, returning it, deepening it. His hands slid higher.  
“Liked that?”  
“Oh, yes,” Mycroft breathed.  
“You want any more of this?” Greg indicated the lit joint.  
“No.”  
Greg pinched out the ember, and tossed it toward the box. It landed in the lid with the other roach end.  
He looked at Mycroft in the soft light, flushed, eager. “You beauty.”  
Mycroft hummed and moved closer. Greg ran is hand through Mycrof't's hair. Long hands slid higher, to his hips, gripping. Little Greg liked that. The arms slipped around his hips, up his back, embracing, where Mycroft paused, face laid against Greg's belly. Greg ran his hands up and down Mycroft, waiting for his next move, but it didn't come.  
He petted Mycroft's hair, smoothed it again and again, concern creeping in.  
“Hey.” He stroked Mycroft's temple, his forehead, trying to urge his face up. “Mycroft. Hey,” he whispered. Mycroft squeezed him a little harder. He lifted his head. “You okay? What d'you need?”  
“I need you. I want to have you.” Mycroft sat up. “Let me take you to bed.”  
Greg held his hand out, looking to be helped up. “We're too old to snog on the floor, anyway. That's where this was heading in short order.”  
Mycroft stood and pulled Greg up with him. “My bed is much better. Come.”  
He took Greg's hand, and lead him to the stairs, and up to his bedroom. He closed the door, and reached for a remote. He turned on the gas fireplace, which sprang to life with a _wuff_ , instantly upping the boudoir factor.  
“I'm going to get undressed. Please feel free to do the same. Be right back.” Mycroft turned for his _en suite_ , and returned a few minutes later in a long wool dressing gown that draped almost to his bare feet.  
Greg had stripped to his boxers, grabbing a throw blanket from the bed to wrap around his shoulders. He stood restlessly by the fire.  
Mycroft approached, almost gliding. He pushed the blanket off Greg's shoulders, looping his arms about him.  
“What I want, Gregory, is to be filled up. Your tongue in my mouth, your cock in my mouth, fuck me hard and fill me up. Don't be nice about it. Can you do that for me?” Greg's mouth dropped open. “Can you? Do you want me to beg, because I will if that will get you moving.”  
Greg ran his fingers up Mycroft's long neck and gripped the back of his hair firmly. “Yeah. I can do that.” He kissed him hard, teeth and tongue, fucking his mouth with it. He wished his tongue were larger, but he thrust it as far in as he could, blocking Mycroft's air, making him feel it. Mycroft's hands dropped to flit about Greg's waist, fluttering with every tug of his hair, every nip on his mouth.  
Mycroft ran his palm over Greg's boxers, taking his measure, pulled away from the filthy snogging.  
“Ohh. I had hoped.” He rubbed and squeezed lightly. He pressed Greg back beside the mantel, dropped to his knees, taking the pants down with him. Greg stepped out of them, kicked them away, as Mycroft arranged his pooling robe behind him.  
They locked eyes.  
“Fill me up, Greg. Push out everything that isn't you.” Mycroft took him in hand, Greg thumping his head against the plaster. He pumped him a few times, curling Greg's toes, then licked him up and down. Greg gripped at Mycroft's shoulders as his cock was drawn into that wry, wicked mouth, sucked in, pulled out like the joints he'd envied earlier.  
“Flick the head, use your tongue.” Mycroft, clever thing that he was, caught on, and treated him to the whole process, ending with a swirl of his tongue as he drew Greg's cock out for the next plunge in.  
Mycroft moved Greg's hands to his head. He looked up. “Don't you dare come yet.” He took a deep breath, anticipating.  
Greg hitched his hips forward, thrusting in deep. Mycroft was ready for him, teeth covered, throat open, head tipping back to make space. Greg was long, even Mycroft's pointed nose couldn't touch his belly as he took him in as far as he could. Mycroft circled a hand at the root of his cock, Greg starting to pound in, setting a pace, Mycroft moaning around his shaft. When he pushed in deep and held there, Mycroft swallowed, and Greg groaned loudly. He kept swallowing. Greg lifted up on his toes, holding Mycroft's head for balance, too close to coming, until Mycroft tugged his testicles gently, shockingly.  
Greg pulled out, gasping, Mycroft also. “That was close,” Greg ground out.  
“I want you to fuck me. You can't come yet.”  
Greg looked down. Mycroft's prick stuck out of his robe, his knees splayed out as he fisted himself slowly. Greg leaned down and kissed him. Mycroft hummed. “Yes. You want my cock in you, don't you?” Mycroft licked his lips, pressed them together and nodded. “Get on the edge of the bed.”  
Mycroft practically levitated off the floor, swirling his robe in his haste. He sat at the foot of the bed, scooting back just a bit, spreading the azure wool out like wings.  
Greg stalked up to stand between his thighs. He kissed him again, running his palm idly over Mycroft's chest. “Condoms? Lube?” He looked for a likely drawer to open.  
“I'm clear. Are you clear?” Greg nodded. “Then fuck me bare. Please.” Mycroft lay back and Greg leaned over him, nuzzling his ear.  
“Lube, then?”  
Mycroft gripped Greg's wrist and dragged his hand to his bottom. Greg slipped a finger between his cheeks, feeling slickness. He moaned. A surge of excitement threatened his control.  
“I'm all ready.” Mycroft pulled Greg on top of him, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis. Greg gave an experimental thrust, then scooped up Mycroft's legs and wrapped them around his torso.  
He pushed at Mycroft, finding his entrance. He rolled his hips as Mycroft writhed, a spacey smile on his face. He slid in, pulled out, in and out, incrementally deeper each time, all he could do to not let Mycroft pull him in all at once with his long, strong legs against his back and bottom. They battled for control, but both ultimately won as Greg sank in fully, and stayed there. Mycroft gasped, panting, mouth open, knees falling to the side.  
Greg braced himself in place, hands planted on the bed. “In the loo. Just now. You got yourself ready for me.”  
Mycroft smoothed his hands up Greg's biceps and shoulders. “Yes. Stop talking and fuck.”  
“Hush unless you want this to end right now. It's all I can do to keep from coming, you feel so good.”  
“So do you.” He craned up for a filthy kiss. Their lips clung together, sharing hot breaths as Greg hovered on the cusp of bliss, finally backing off from danger. Greg hugged Mycroft's thighs and pulled him to the very edge of the mattress, one knee over his shoulder, one leg around his waist, Mycroft spread beneath him.  
“So hot.” Greg growled, thrusting in hard. “So slick.” Again. “So _tight._ ” He pounded him steadily, feasting on the sight of Mycroft's flushed chest, red face, the grimace that tightened with each hitch forward, with each brush of Greg's belly against his cock. Mycroft bit his lip as his head tossed back and forth. He cried out softly as Greg shifted his angle.  
Mycroft curled up, wrapping both legs around Greg's thighs, mashing their mouths together, clutching Greg's bottom in both hands. Greg levered him up, face to face, Mycroft almost hanging off the bed.  
“Harder. Harder. More!”  
Greg shortened his strokes, Mycroft clung tighter, arching back, panting, humming. Greg dropped them both to the bed with a grunt, laying Mycroft flat. He got his feet under him and tipped Mycroft's hips up, slowing to long, luxuriant, steady strokes. Mycroft writhed in place, hands grasping the duvet, head tossing, more and more lost to sensation.  
He reached for Greg's hand, pulled it to his mouth and sucked in two fingers. Greg held himself up, feeling Mycroft's tongue and hard suction. He dipped his head.  
“Jesus, fuck. Touch yourself. Come, Mycroft. _Close._ ” He dripped sweat on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft reached for his cock, and pulled himself, fist pressed between their bodies. As Greg sank home over and over, Mycroft pumped, sucking on thick fingers, well-filled.  
Greg felt the clenching first, Mycroft's whole body seized with orgasm, his cock gripped with contractions, his fingers grazed by teeth. It sent him over as he jabbed in as deeply as he could lifting Mycroft's hips off the edge.  
Mycroft removed Greg's fingers from his mouth, dropping his hand to his chest. Clasping Greg's hand over his heart as he came down, uttering small 'ahs' with every other breath.  
Greg moved to pull away, but Mycroft held him with his legs.  
“Please. Not yet.” He pressed his warm mouth to Greg's palm, eyes closed. Greg lay his head on Mycroft for a bit. He groaned when he felt Mycroft squeezing his softening prick, pumping it slowly. As sensitive as he was, it felt divine. If he were younger, that could have sent him off on round two, but, no.  
Greg circled his hips. They both hummed appreciatively, but Greg needed to move.  
“Mycroft, pet, you have to let me go.” He stood, his back protesting, Mycroft seeming bereft. “Be right back.”  
He cleaned up in the loo, came out to find Mycroft waiting, robe open.  
“Get in the bed and relax. I'll be out shortly,” Mycroft instructed, and Greg obeyed eagerly. He slid under the expensive sheets, the fluffy duvet, arms crossed behind his head on a pillow that was made partially from a cloud. He closed his eyes.  
He wondered how long Mycroft would want him to linger before he'd boot him out. He got his answer as soon as Mycroft slipped off his robe and slid in beside him.  
“Gregory, would you like to stay the night? I'd be very happy to have you stay. There's no reason for you to go.”  
“I've got work in the morning.”  
“As do I, but, of course, my car will take you home and then on to the Yard, to save you time. Unless you don't want to stay, which I would understand completely.”  
“I'd like to stay.” He rolled over and pecked Mycroft's lips. “Thanks. Besides, I don't think I can move for a while yet. Holy Christ, Mycroft.” He chuckled. “I'm not twenty anymore.”  
Mycroft rolled on his side, too. “Thank you, Greg. That was just what I needed. You have no idea.”  
“I think I have some idea.” He petted Mycroft's hair, the side of his face, his shoulder. “Oh, look at that. You've got freckles.” He leaned up and kissed a few, making his way back to Mycroft's face to kiss his jaw and mouth. Then he rolled back in exhaustion.  
“You like them? I've always hated them. Sherlock started taunting me the minute he realized I was sensitive about them.”  
“Of course he did. You were the perfect big brother. There was nothing else he could use.”  
Mycroft hummed. “There were a couple of things.”  
“How about we keep your brother out of it while we're in bed?”  
There was a beat of silence. “He's always there, Greg. Always.” They lay quietly for a bit. Greg felt the tension building up again.  
“Mycroft?” The man turned to look at him. “Come on. Gimme. The silence is screaming. Get it out so we can relax.”  
Mycroft sighed heavily. He covered his eyes with one hand, covered his heart with the other. “Sherlock was high before he got on the jet to leave. The flight aborted after only a few minutes, and landed. He was dangerously high, dosed with all sorts....” He sighed again, kneading his chest.  
Greg rolled closer and put his arm around Mycroft, who gripped it and held tight. “Is he really all right, now? Is John with him?”  
“He came dangerously close to an overdose. And, no, John went home with his wife. Sherlock managed to repel even John Watson. My brother claims to have worked out his issues while he was unconscious. He maintains he won't need drugs anymore.”  
“You don't believe him.”  
“He's an addict. Of course I don't believe him, as much as he seems to have convinced himself. I will never stop worrying about him, Greg.”  
“But you've got someone watching tonight, I bet.”  
“Yes. Of course.”  
“Then it's not your responsibility right now. Let go. Sleep.” He rolled them so he could spoon Mycroft, clasped hands tucked against Mycroft's chest. He kissed a few more freckles. “What do you want for breakfast tomorrow? I'll make you anything. You like eggy bread? Toad in the hole? What's your poison?”  
Mycroft sighed, relaxing into Greg's hold, filling in all the gaps between them to make more perfect contact. “I'll have you again in the morning. That's all I'll need.”  
“Very flattering, but I'm still feeding you. Sleep on it.”  
“I will,” Mycroft said softly.  
“And Mycroft?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Remember that thing about perks people could've taken advantage of?” Greg rumbled in his ear. “I'm one of those perks. You should know – since we met, I've always liked you. I was ready to be your ally in supporting Sherlock, but.... If you'd ever given me the time, you'd have seen what you could have had. You can have that now.”  
Mycroft pulled Greg's arm tighter, but said nothing. Greg pressed his mouth softly over Mycroft's bare back.  
“My – I'm so sorry about Sherlock. Little bastard.”  
They drifted off like that, fitting like puzzle pieces. 

Mycroft woke Greg with caresses and soft kisses. They touched each other, came together much more gently than the night before, much less strenuously, still half asleep. They dozed again, Greg trusting Mycroft to get him up in time for the day, which he did.  
In the kitchen, wearing robes, Greg, having seen Mycroft's refrigerator and the healthy contents therein, made poached eggs on whole grain toast with avocado mashed on top. Mycroft insisted on making the tea. Greg preferred coffee, but he could get it later from the truck outside the Yard if he felt strongly about it. Honestly, he felt refreshed from the vigorous sex and excellent weed, not hungover like after a night at the pub. Perhaps he could pretend to be a functional adult for a day and drink tea in the morning. He'd take a couple of paracetamol for his back, though. He wasn't a martyr.  
He laid out the breakfast dishes, while Mycroft carried over two steaming glass bowls.  
“That's. Okay, what the hell's that?”  
“This is artisanal tea made in special bags. Look.”  
Greg looked and laughed. “Goldfish? That is weird, yet beautiful.” He tugged on the tag, making his little fish swim about. It looked very lifelike.  
“Yes. Sherlock gave me a box of these a while ago, after his return. It's an inside joke; however, your first task as my new friend, should you choose to accept it, would be to 'freak out' my little brother by mentioning to him that I offered you this tea in my own kitchen.”  
Greg snickered at the audible quotes around 'freak out', and then let out a hearty 'HA' at the directions.  
“Absolutely.”  
“If you should feel the need to share details of the evening, you have my permission. I only ask that you surreptitiously film the episode on your phone, so I can enjoy it, too. Tell him in an open space so he doesn't hurt himself unnecessarily on a piece of furniture on his way down to the floor. I'm not a monster, you know.”  
“I know.” Greg reached over and squeezed Mycroft's arm. They set to devouring their breakfasts.

Later, as Greg headed out to Mycroft's car, he stopped to say goodbye. He admired Mycroft in the blue robe. “That color suits you. Sets off your hair and eyes. And freckles.” He laid his hand on the bare bit of chest showing, then pulled Mycroft in for a kiss. He gathered him in for an embrace, trying to put everything he felt into it. “You've got me, now. Burdens shared, and all that.”  
Mycroft nodded, mute, as Greg let himself out. He saw Mycroft's hand go over his heart as the door closed. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this on Christmas Day. Then I saw The Abominable Bride, and themes I'd already started got deep real fast. Sherlock is killing Mycroft with worry. Damn, son.  
> I was tickled to see Rupert single out Mycroft as the ultimate survivor, but to have it revealed that Mycroft is, in fact, suffering quietly and invisibly in his roles to the point of illness just about broke my heart. Mycroft needs someone on his side, just for him, and i hope it's Lestrade. 
> 
> Yes, those tea bags are real, and they are adorable. 
> 
> Unbeta'd. Please point out any errors so I can fix them. Thank you.
> 
> Pertinent images of Mark Gatiss from 'London Spy':


End file.
